Seattle Night
by karisma1again
Summary: Just a Mark/Lexie piece; picks up where All By Myself left off.
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimers Apply

Chapter One

Sometimes, when she woke, even after all this time in Seattle, she would know a brief moment of displacement. So she'd stay still for a moment, eyes closed, while her body took in the unfamiliar lumps of the mattress, the light streaming in from a window she did not have back home, and the chill that never seemed to go away in their apartment. That way, when her lids lifted, she was not disappointed, not surprised. Just prepared.

But when she woke up that morning, there was no question as to where she was. There was no realization as to whose room she was in, whose bed she was sharing, because 'realization' implied there being a moment of unawareness. And she was nothing if not aware. Aware of the ridiculously fluffy pillows beneath her hair, the kind only hotels seemed to stock. Aware of the bedspread barely hanging onto one corner of the bed after being unceremoniously shoved aside by him, or her, or them. Aware of who occupied the other half of the bed, or rather, most of it, since Mark Sloan didn't seem to respect the concept of personal space.

She had slept on her back, an unusual occurrence, and half his body pinned her to the mattress. One leg draped across both of hers served as an effective weight; his arm around her upper chest felt much heavier than any limb had a right to feel. And his facial hair tickled the curve of her neck with each steady breath.

Taking care not to wake him, she maneuvered her arms out and over him to cover her face. She couldn't help the slight moan that escaped her when she thought of how awkward this was going to be. And not just in the immediate future, but for every other 36-hour shift she worked, until the mortification finally just killed her.

Spreading her fingers wide, she let triangles of light peak through her hands. She twisted her head in slow increments, trying in vain to see him, but his head near her neck stopped her movements. Perhaps she should be grateful. Seeing someone naked was one thing; seeing them sleep was an entirely different form of intimacy.

Edging toward the nightstand, she remained flat on her back, wiggling sideways. Every few seconds, she'd freeze, make sure his breathing pattern hadn't changed, and then continue the horizontal dance toward freedom. He unwittingly helped her halfway through, when his leg shifted to give her shins reprieve. Unfortunately, she wasn't prepared for the sudden release and fell to the floor in a tumble of limbs. Suddenly aware of her nudity, she kept her knees to her chest as she lifted her head so that her line of sight was level with the mattress. She waited with bated breath until she heard his rhythmic exhale. Still asleep.

That was good, very good. Very convenient. She stayed low as she circled the bed, finding articles of clothing on the ground and collecting them on as she went. She hoped they were all hers; she wasn't really examining them. Arms full and still crouching, she turned to change direction. It was as she was headed for the bathroom that she realized there was no more even breathing.

When she looked at the headboard from her vantage point at the foot of the bed, he was waiting for her. Amusement detailed on every one of his features, he readjusted himself, the sheet slipping down to his bare waist.

"I—I'm…" She swallowed and tried again. "I'm getting dressed."

His eyes dropped down to the bundle of clothing sandwiched between her chest and knees. There was not much to be grateful for in this situation, but Lexie considered herself an optimist and if there ever was a silver lining, it was that there could have been nothing between his eyes and her naked, crouched body. Her grip on the clothes tightened at the thought.

"Down there?"

"This is where the clothes are." As if to prove it, she pointed to a scrap of cloth by the nightstand. Then she realized it was her underwear. "Oh God."

Following her gaze, he saw the garment. Then he leaned over to pick it up, causing the sheet to drop even lower. Lexie looked up at the ceiling until he began twirling the lace on his index finger. She noticed he didn't bother to fix the sheet. Not very surprising; nothing about the man exactly screamed shy.

Later, she would be very proud of the way she managed to slowly stand with the clothes covering the essentials. Proud of how her hand did not shake as she held it out for her underwear. He made a show of handing it over before promptly pulling it out of her reach. Lexie made a quick assessment of her priorities. Should she fight for her right to her panties, she'd probably lose her armor of swaddled clothes and end up naked. Favorite pair or no favorite pair, the panties lost.

"Keep them," she said, trying to inject frost in her voice.

"Souvenir?"

She stiffened. If she had any sense, she'd give him the finger, then her back as she walked to the bathroom and then out of his hotel room. Unfortunately, her backside was as naked as the front. So she walked backward, and not nearly with as much dignity as she would have liked.

"I've seen you naked, you know."

"I'm aware." How far away was the damn bathroom? She looked over her shoulder to make certain she wouldn't run into the sofa. The last thing she needed was to topple naked over a couch.

"So there's no mystery as to what you've got underneath that."

"I know."

"And there's the fact that I'm a doctor. I've seen all the parts."

Her hand made contact with the doorknob. She turned it and escaped inside, making sure to twist the lock. He heard. "Where's the trust?" he called from outside.

Clothes on in record time, sans panties, she scrubbed her face with water, avoiding the mirror. When she came out, he had her underwear in his hand and a pleased smile on his face. She scowled. Hand extended, she walked closer to him, making certain she stopped at the foot of the bed.

"I thought these were a gift."

She bared her teeth into a smile, the gesture holding no humor. "You really want them? I didn't know cross-dressing was your style."

His eyes narrowed, and he didn't look nearly as pleased anymore. "Don't do sarcastic. It doesn't suit you."

Then he stared at her for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful, before letting the material slip through his fingers and form a flimsy puddle on the pillow next to him. Her pillow—correction: her rented pillow; Mark Sloan didn't share pillows with the same woman more than once, if gossip was anything to go by. "All yours."

She let out her breath in a low whooshing sound. Planting her hands on her hips, she glared. "This isn't how it's going to be."

He cocked his head to the side. "That sentence is missing a lot of nouns."

"I mean it." Her hands fluttered in front of her as she gestured to the space between their bodies. "You're not going to be all flirty and inappropriate and naked."

"I'm not." It was not a question, it was not a statement. Rather, it was a careful repetition.

"No. You're not. And I'm not going to be coy and giggly and—and—"

"Naked?" he offered helpfully.

"Yes. I mean, no." She shook her head as if to clear it. "No naked. There will be no naked. No one will be naked."

"That doesn't sound like much fun."

She stomped over to what had been her side of the bed and bent to take her underwear. But he was too quick and, before she knew it, the garment was swallowed by his palm.

"You could always come and get them from me, you know."

Yes, she was bright. Yes, she went to Harvard. Yes, she had a photographic memory. But it didn't take a genius to figure out where wrestling with a naked Mark Sloan got a girl. She opened her mouth to reply. Then snapped it shut when she couldn't think of anything witty to say. "I'm going to work." As far as comebacks went, it was sorely lacking. But it was something professional and dismissive, and it gave her an exit.

So it came as a letdown when he managed to squeeze in the last word as she closed the hotel door behind her.

"Running away, Little Grey?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Supply and Demand

Before Yang could assign her to Plastics by way of punishment, Lexie volunteered for scut duty. If Cristina was suspicious, she didn't say anything, instead moving on to Four while Lexie exhaled her relief. If the inside of an OR wasn't an option, there was nothing wrong with passing the day by restocking supply closets—or hiding in them.

He rode the elevators; she didn't know how or why she knew that, but she did. So she assumed custody of the stairwells. She told herself she could use the cardio.

By the time she only had three closets left to stock, she figured she should pace herself if she wanted to the job to last. It was hard to deliberately slow her movements though; that left ample time for her mind to wander. And then instead of suture kits and gauze pads, there were images of her under his body, his hands gripping her hips as he moved against her.

She dropped a few kits as her hands flew up to dig into her eyes sockets, willing the memory of his mouth sipping her skin to dissipate. When she released the pressure, all she saw were bright spots and it was a welcome reprieve. She bent to pick up the kits, working even faster in an endeavor to stem any more flashbacks.

When the door pushed open, she knew who it was before his frame swallowed the only viable exit. Training her eyes on the shelves, she stacked in a steady rhythm as he stared at her. It was only when he closed the door behind him that her arms faltered.

She would not be the first to speak. She would not be the first to speak.

"What?" It was a fantastically unbrilliant thing to say.

"Are you avoiding me?"

She tried to laugh. "Why would I do that?" If only he wasn't so damn tall—he made an ample sized room claustrophobic. George didn't make closets shrink; George was safe, nonthreatening. George also wasn't hers to think about. Her head lowered at the thought and she realized it must have looked like an admission of guilt to him.

"You tell me."

She sighed. "I'm working. The closets don't supply themselves."

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her. It was unnerving; she felt like a pinned bug in some odd collection. She made a valiant effort not to stare at the way his blue scrub top stretched over his chest as he moved.

"You're supplying the closet," he repeated slowly.

It was stupid comment and she leaped on it like manna from heaven. "Yes," she said, as if he were a special needs child.

"Are you sure you're not raiding it?" He jerked his chin to gesture down at her.

She followed his eyes. Somewhere along the line she had stopped putting the kits on the shelves and started collecting them in her now full arms.

She'd be damned if she put them back in front of him. Pressing them closer to her chest, déjà vu swept over her and, all of a sudden, the suture kits were clothes and she was as naked as the day she had been born. Her chin lifted a notch in a gesture of stubbornness, the movement trying to offset the color flooding to her cheeks. "I've changed my mind. Now I need them."

He was losing patience. "This is ridiculous."

She would not be sucked into a conversation about what had happened last night. This was going to stay about suture kits if it damn well killed her. "I'm allowed to change my mind."

"Clearly," he said, annoyance stamped onto his features. His voice lowered. "What happened to "teach me"?"

Low blow. Her breath hissed out as if he'd physically pushed her in the gut. "A gentleman wouldn't throw that in my face."

He smiled and it was positively feral. "If you wanted a gentleman, you wouldn't have come to me."

"Don't worry. I make it a point to learn from my mistakes." Elbows out, she tried to move past him, but he refused to give way. Exasperated, she lifted her head to glare at him, but he was already glowering at her. And then she realized he hadn't liked her last quip.

"I told you—sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"Jesus, what do you want? Do we really have to do a post-mortem of last night? We were two, safe, consensual adults and that's that."

It was like he wasn't even listening to her, just watching the way her mouth formed the words. "Why did you come to my hotel?"

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall eloquently. "I was drunk." It was flippant and cute.

He didn't appreciate it. "Liar."

Then she was angry. How many women slept with Mark Sloan without any repercussions? She tried it and suddenly there was a judge, jury and trial breathing down her neck.

She shoved the kits into his arms and he must have been surprised because his arms instinctively wrapped around them. The unexpected force of the motion had him stagger one step back and she used it to her advantage.

"You know why I came over and I know you know why I came over. I had an itch and you had—you had—" Here she faltered and gestured aimlessly with her hand. She had every intention of stopping, but then he smirked at her, as if he just knew little Lexie Grey couldn't bring herself to go there. Then it became about pride. And shock value. "A dick."

His brow rose. "I still have one," he offered.

Her face twisted into an expression of disgust. "Oh, you're sick."

"I'm sick? You use me as a personal stud, and I'm sick?" He had found his equilibrium, and there was no question as to who now had the upper hand. Stature and height alone had him looming above her.

"Seriously?" Stamping down the urge to shove him, she settled for clenching her fingers over her thumbs into two useless fists. "Seriously? You're taking some moral high ground here? As if you have never used another human being?"

"I didn't use you." The kits made a rustling noise and he shoved them into a nearby shelf. She'd have to rearrange them, she thought idly, but why should he care?

"Oh, please. I'm not an idiot. I know why you slept with me."

Genuine interest filled his eyes, widening them. Their color stood out, clear and blue. Nothing like the eyes she had seen last night. They had been dark then, almost cobalt.

"Nothing makes you want something more than someone telling you: you can't."

He seemed thrown, uncomfortable. She smiled, reveling in it. "Getting warm, am I?"

"That has nothing to do—"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't kid yourself. It has everything to do with it." Inhaling, she strove for rationality. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. "Listen, we both had itches. They're scratched. Dr. Shepard doesn't have to know, Meredith doesn't have to know and we can just...move on."

"Are you still in love with O'Malley?"

That threw her. She hesitated and he caught it immediately. Something between triumph and disgust masked his face. "Damn you," he swore. If he had yelled, she would have been able to answer in kind. But his voice was low and rough, barely above a whispered growl. But the anger was there, she realized, underneath it. She had never seen him angry—cruel, yes. Mocking, yes. Self-preservation dictated she take a step back. He compensated by taking a step forward. She noticed his eyes darken, and knew he would reach for her even before she felt his hands on her lab coat.

He yanked her to him with a thud that reverberated throughout her entire body. Her belly was flush against his and the contact—without time to brace herself—made breathing difficult.

"I don't like ghosts in my bed, Grey."

For some ineffable reason, she felt like crying. She was tired; exhausted from the effort it took to make George love her, Meredith acknowledge her, Alex remember her. She sucked in air through her teeth. Damned before she let him see her cry, the best position was offensive. "I'm pretty sure you bring your own."

When his eyes narrowed, the corners crinkled in a way that was entirely too attractive. "Meaning?" His voice was curt.

"How many nurses have you screwed to get Dr. Shepard out of your system? And—" she continued, her voice louder and faster when she saw him attempt to interrupt. "I don't mean the male one."

Teeth clicked as his jaw shut. He was clenching it, she noticed, the hard line was visible even in the dim light of the closet. "Addison has nothing to do with this."

"Right," she said, implying he was anything but. They were far too close; she had to tip her head back to just avoid bumping her nose on his chest. When she tried to create some distance between them, he curled his fingers inside the waistband of her scrubs. Warm. His fingers were warm as they brushed the sensitized skin above hip.

"You're not wearing underwear."

"No," she agreed. "But you already knew that."

His fingers traced circles across her skin. Goosebumps broke out across her arms and she shivered. "Lexie," he said, all traces of anger gone. The charm was back—with reinforcements. "Why are we wasting time talking?"

Then he bent his head to kiss her and she was half-tempted to let him. He was good at kissing. She honestly hadn't expected that; for him to be good at the other stuff was a given, but kissing took a different level of consideration and mutuality.

"See!" She opted for words instead. "You're doing it right now. Someone only has to mention her name and you're racing for the closest body to substitute her with."

He jerked back as if she'd slapped him. If she knew what was good for her, she'd stop. His face was thunderous. But she'd gone too far to come back. So she took in a deep breath and finished:

"Looks like I'm not the only one who's pathetic."

They stood there in some sort of warped tableau for a moment, her words filling the minimal space between them. Then he spoke, his voice all gravel and heat. "When I wanted Addison, I went after her. I didn't settle, I didn't compromise. I went after her—and when it was over, it was over." He backed away from her, shoulders squared as if in battle. "That doesn't make me pathetic; it makes me honest." He waited a beat, as if debating whether or not to continue. Then, with too much casualty to be entirely genuine, he added, "She wasn't in my bed last night. You were."

There was something expectant in the silence that followed. She focused on a shadow on the wall just above his shoulder and remained quiet. He let out a breath and she had the feeling he was done. With the conversation. With the closet. With her.

And then, as he reached for the door handle: "I meant what I said, Lexie. No other man haunts my bed—and if you have any self-respect, you won't let another woman haunt yours."

The use of her given name compelled honesty. Still staring at the wall, her face turned away from him, she said, "I wasn't thinking of him then—last night, I mean."

Hand on the door, he didn't turn around. "Good."

"Was it—was I forgettable?"

She hadn't wanted to ask, hadn't planned on it, but the words rushed out, nearly tripping over themselves to get off her tongue and into the air they shared. Twisting her head, she met his gaze, if only to see the truth on his face because she, of all people, knew how little words meant.

"If only."

And then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello all! Law school exams are DONE and I have my life back. =)

Does anyone know how to add a story to the Slexie Community (Dare You to Move)? I have no idea how to do it, but I'd really like to. Please review and thank you for reading!

Chapter Three: Heart and Shoulder

For something that grew out of nothing and in the worst conditions, hope had tenacious roots. It rose, spun, fought reason and rejection, all but disappeared, and then, reversed without invite, embedding itself once again.

She had carried hope, nurtured it, fed it until it emanated off of her. Strangers could hear it in her voice; Mark Sloan had seen it on her face. Everyone knew about her hope, but the most ironic thing was she was too damn full of hope to care, to feel due shame and embarrassment. She wore it like a badge, something of which to be proud. Yes, everyone knew. Everyone, with the noticeable exception of George.

The thing was…he had never actually said no.

There was no denying he simply didn't think about her the way she thought about him. He didn't wake up thinking what her first words to him would be. He didn't drink his coffee wondering if she wanted some as well. He didn't go to bed at night wondering if she was tired from her shift, or hungry but too tired to cook. No, these were all unequivocal facts.

But once she had confronted him, once she had admitted that she wanted to be seen that way…he had never actually, really, truly said no. She had made his non-reaction easy. First she had walked away, then she had extended the peace offering, effectively making forgetting easier than discussing. Perhaps she shouldn't have, perhaps discussion would have led to an answer. A yes. A no. A beginning. An ending.

All she knew was that the hope George crushed when he hadn't bothered to ask for her as an intern was growing again. It wasn't particularly welcome when she first recognized it fluttering against her ribcage as he asked her to meet him at Joe's after work. But then she realized he had never actually said no.

So she was at the bar, fidgeting on a stool facing the entrance to the bar. There was a rip in the vinyl that dug into the seat of her jeans, but to switch seats would be to relinquish her vantage point. She wanted to see his face before he saw hers. There was an upper hand to this strategy, but she hadn't quite figured out what it was yet.

When the door swung open, bringing it the noise of traffic and rain, her head jerked up. She recognized two nurses from the ER and lowered her head back to her drink, playing with the two thin straws.

If the hope in her knew how to tell time, it wouldn't be so anxious to grow now that he was half an hour late. The next time the door swung open she didn't bother looking. Even an eternal optimist knew when to fold; he wasn't coming. She wondered which she was better: him deliberately standing her up or him forgetting about her all together. It was pathetic, but she preferred the former; at least it involved him thinking about her.

And then, when the seat next to her sank with the weight of a body, ever-resilient hope sprang. Savoring it, her eyes slid up her neighbor's length. She got halfway up his chest when she realized whom it was. Or rather, who it was not. George wasn't that tall.

"Evening, Grey," he said, nodding at her as he lifted two fingers to Joe with a grace that stemmed from habit.

She made a noise in the back of her throat that passed as a greeting. The ice in her drink was melting and she clinked the drifting pieces together with her straws.

"Didn't see you in the gallery tonight."

Her spine straightened. "Did you have a surgery?"

"Skin graft."

Lips pursued, she strove for a nonchalance she didn't feel. "Did you have a resident assist?"

His brows rose and then his lips parted in a facsimile of a smile and she knew he saw right through her ploy. "You mean did O'Malley assist?" She said nothing and he continued. "No, no he didn't. But he was in the gallery."

"Oh."

"Not the answer you wanted?"

"No." She shook her head as if to erase that reply. "No, I mean no, there's not one answer I wanted. In particular."

"Except maybe: He got up and announced his love to you in the middle of my surgery and is rushing over as we speak." He grinned, waiting for the torrent of her disapproval and anger.

Instead a grimace split across her face. "There's no need to be cruel," she said quietly.

His beer arrived, accompanied with a twin. He pushed one over to her. She shook her head. "I should probably go."

"Hey," he stilled her arm as she reached for her coat. "Stay. Finish your drink. I promise not to mention Boy Wonder."

She paused, looking at him. His face was blank, the blue of his eyes almost swallowed by his pupils. By some instinct she didn't know she possessed, she knew he wasn't working an angle. There was a tacit truce budding between them; an acknowledgement that the argument they'd had in the supply closet was better left undisturbed. Besides what was her alternative? Going back to a cold apartment to await the delayed arrival of a roommate who wouldn't even realize he had stood her up?

Her answer was replacing her coat on the vacant stool to her left. Grabbing the peace offering, she took a swig before setting it back down on the napkin. Idly, she made sure to match the sweating bottle up with the ring previously left.

"So who died?"

Her head jerked up to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"People normally don't drink alone when they're celebrating."

Her lips twisted into a dry smile. "I wasn't supposed to be drinking alone."

"Oh?" he asked. When she angled her head to the side and looked at him, he nodded. "Ah," he said. "Boy Wonder."

She tapped her nose with her index finger twice. Taking a deep swallow, she shook her head. "Just don't say the P word, not now."

Lifting one shoulder, he let it fall. "Wasn't planning on it." Then he studied her for a moment before turning to face the bar. "Hell, isn't it?"

"What is?" Joe took her empty beer and replaced it, his head bent as he worked, completely missing her signal that she didn't want another one. After a fatalistic shrug, she picked it up.

"Wanting someone who doesn't want you. Loving someone who doesn't love you."

There wasn't a clever response to that, especially since it hadn't been posed as a question. She let her silence talk.

"So then you do love him."

"It sure as hell feels like it." The smile she gave him was wan at best, pitiable at worst. "Can we talk about something else?"

He grinned. "Nope." He finished his drink and started another one. "Why O'Malley?"

"I'm not talking about this with you." She straightened in her seat, looking over him to the front door. Following her line of vision, he saw a couple walk into the bar. When he felt, rather than saw, her shoulders lower, he turned back to her.

"He's not coming, Lexie."

The way he said it, gently, firmly, but not unkindly, compelled her to agree. "I know."

He watched her trace her finger along the mouth of her beer. "Finish that, we're leaving," he said.

Surprise first filled her eyes, quickly chased by a knowing look. Before she could shake her head in rejection, he spoke. "No, not that, pervert. We're only taking a walk."

Knowing she shouldn't didn't curb her curiosity. Doing as she was told, she finished her beer and took her coat.

It was a clear night and she inhaled the cold air before blowing it out, white plumes filling the space in front of her mouth. They walked in silence, and she was aware of how tall he was, how his strides were long and easy. The gait of a surgeon, she thought, and smiled her to herself.

"In here," he said and she looked up to see a neon sign so bright she couldn't make out the words. Blinking, she walked through the door he held open for her.

Beeps and gunfire filled her ears as she looked around in awe. Adults of various ages were slouched over bright machines, punching buttons and pulling triggers. "An arcade?" she said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "Adult recreation," he corrected.

"That sounds like porn." It came out before her mental filter could do its job and her eyes widened as he looked at her. Sex was a topic they should stay away from.

Benevolence seemed to be his goal tonight because he ignored her thoughtless comment and scanned the room. She followed him as he led her to one of the machines. After he fed it quarters, he handed her the attached gavel.

She held it like it was diseased. After staring it at, she lifted her gaze to his.

"Come on, Grey, this isn't neurosurgery. Hit the damn rodents."

The game made an unearthly sound and colored rats started coming out of their holes. She made a half-hearted attempt to bop one on the head and missed it entirely. The next time she tried, she made contact, but didn't force the rat back home.

"Harder, Grey, you're never going to feel better unless you put some anger into it."

Obedient as ever, she swung down harder and slammed the gavel straight onto a yellow rat. Tremors reverberated through her elbow, but she was focused and hit harder, faster. When it was all over, her score was nothing to write home about, but she was hooked.

She looked at him, laughing all the while. Cheeks flushed, she tried to find words to describe it and found she didn't have to, because he was laughing with her. Coins jangled in his pocket and he held his hand flat out. Leaning forward, she picked a few quarters out of his palm and then made the mistake of looking up.

Their heads were close and, even in the din of the arcade, she heard him breathe. His beard had caught a few strands of her hair. His hand rose to brush them down. She blinked. And just like that, it was over; the game started again and whatever threads had woven that quiet moment disintegrated.

She went another round and then relinquished the gavel to him. She alternated between cheering and heckling him while he rained fury on the rats, clapping out her excitement. His score put hers to shame, as she knew it would, but it hardly mattered.

When their arms had had enough, she rubbed her elbow and thanked him.

"Do you feel better?"

She paused, as if assessing herself. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"Good." They walked out of the arcade and back into the night. "So why O'Malley?"

"Sadist." When he did nothing but smile complacently, she sighed. "Fine. First promise not to laugh."

"No."

The glare she gave him had him acquiescing.

"George is—he's the safe guy. He's dependable and sweet and sensitive—"

"I'm sorry, remind me again: Do you want a boyfriend or a dog?"

He stumbled a few steps to the side as she shoved his shoulder. It was an odd movement, familiar even, and he stared down at her for a moment, watching her mouth as she spoke.

"I mean he's the best friend who's always there for the girl, but she's too dumb to see it because she spends her time pining after the womanizing creep." Lexie shrugged. "I figured I'd get to the end of the movie faster falling for someone like George, you know?"

"Because he's the safe, best friend guy."

"Yes."

One brow rose. "You realize your "safe-best-friend-guy" cheated on his wife and had syphilis, right?"

She rolled her eyes and smiled, her cheeks pink from the cold and exertion of the game. All of a sudden, he thought she looked impossibly young. "I didn't say he was perfect, but he's not the sleazy jerk who sleeps with all the girls and breaks hearts and doesn't call or care or—" she broke off when she saw him wince. "Oh! I—uh—I, well, I didn't mean _you_."

"No, no, of course not." The words were wry with humor, but his voice was grim.

"It's just—George, he's…_nice_."

"Nice," he echoed.

"Nice," she confirmed.

"And nice is what you want."

"Nice is what I want."

"Lexie…" he started, his steps faltering as he stood still on the sidewalk.

She had gone a few paces without realizing she was alone. Turning back, she walked up to him. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nevermind."

She tilted her head and smiled. "No dice. What is it?"

He paused. "You realize you're too good for him, right?"

Her laughter filled the air between them and it suddenly wasn't so cold. "You have to say that. Like the supportive dad in the movie who's deluded and thinks the geeky girl is a catch."

He clutched his heart over his jacket in mock shock. The whites of her eyes became visible as she widened them. She clamped a hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I'm really not _trying_ to insult you."

"Just coming naturally, I guess."

They began walking again. She made a valiant stab at mending the wound. "You're not old."

His mouth twitched and then stilled. "I know."

"And the gray—the gray looks nice. Suits you."

His mouth jerked up again before he gave into the grin. "Thank you."

"I mean, I bet you look way better with the gray than you did without. When did you start…" She gestured around her head and then pointed at him.

"Twenty-six," he said.

"Oh." She was terrible at hiding her emotions and her surprise was clear even in the dark. "Wow—that's—" She sneaked a look up at him and amended herself. "Good. Lucky, even, since you look—" She cut herself off and looked at him, her shoulders slumping. "You could stop me, you know. Put me out of my misery here."

"What, and cease the verbal diarrhea? Never."

When they reached the parking lot of the hospital, they stopped after realizing their cars were in opposite directions.

"Thank you again," she said. "For tonight."

He inclined his head in acceptance. "Anything for a Grey."

She wasn't sure what to make of that comment so she went to her default setting and smiled. Turning away, she kept her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, but then stopped. She backtracked and he was still there. Once in front of him, she was quiet for a moment, willing her thoughts into some semblance of succinctness.

"Just to be clear," she started. "You're not a slutty creep. And you're not old."

He rocked back on his heels, his hands buried in his pant pockets. "Oh?" The leather of his jacket glinted under the streetlights. "Then what am I?"

She paused again, thinking carefully. Then she decided: "You're kind."


	4. Chapter 4

**_AN: Hi again! Thank you for those who read and reviewed—it means a lot and definitely keeps me going. Sorry this chapter is long in coming, it was frustrating as hell to write and in the end, I just gave up and posted what I had...which ended up being very long._**

Chapter Four: Tea and Sympathy

Lexie pumped the soap dispenser above the sink, lathering her hands in a thorough rhythm that came with practice. As she rinsed off the suds, her hair slipped over her shoulder and into her face. She shook her head back and met her eyes in the mirror. Peering closer, she scrutinized her reflection.

She would be one never stop traffic, especially not during her time as an intern, when finding time to sleep or wash her hair was a constant battle, but she was cute. Her nose wrinkled at that word.

She had good skin. Good, clear skin that would always take years off her age. And shiny hair. Yes, it was brown and silky to a fault since it slipped out of any style she tried to force it into, but it was shiny and neat.

Maybe George had a thing for blondes. There was Izzie—and Meredith. Was Meredith a blonde? But no, there was Olivia. Blondes and redheads, then? Yet he had married Callie. Apparently any color but mere brown would do.

She was in the process of examining her pores when her pager went off. Grateful for the distraction because she was definitely acting ridiculous, she pulled the beeper off her scrub pants and checked the digits.

"Three," Cristina barked.

Lexie stepped out of the assembly line.

"You have good handwriting." It was a cross between an insult and an accusation. "Further proof you shouldn't be a doctor, Lexipedia." That one was all insult.

Cristina moved to the side and jerked a thumb behind her to binders and folders heaped on the nurse's station. "Post-op charts. Go."

She sized up the mountain in front of her, trying to figure out the best way to gather them in her arms. When they were finally stacked up to her nose, she slowly made her way to the elevator.

After it arrived, she waited for people to leave for before trying to enter. The doors dinged and began to shut. An arm shot out, holding them at bay while she stepped inside.

"Thanks," she said, hoisting the files higher and unable to see the good Samaritan.

"You're not stealing those, are you?"

She would have recognized his voice anywhere. Smiling, she shook her head and then realized he probably couldn't see the motion. "No, just filling them out for Dr. Yang."

He asked which floor and she told him. After he pressed the button to close the elevator doors, he took the top half of her files and curved them easily in the space between his arm and torso.

"I thought that was you," he said, looking down at her. He wore a navy scrub cap and she noticed it made his eyes look darker.

"Thank you," she said, sighing at the relieved weight. It was short-lived as the doors opened. "This is me." She inclined her head, letting him know he could put the charts back, but instead he followed her out.

"Where to?"

She had no particular destination in mind, just any place underfoot and with a flat space to work. Rather than admit that, she just began walking, stopping once they reached the vending machines. Placing her half of the files on a rollaway bed flush against the wall, she said, "Here's fine."

He mimicked her motions, but after he set down his pile, they landslided across the mattress. All four of their hands went to catch the folders, but their fingertips met with more of the other's skin than of actual paperwork.

Lexie snatched her hands back and let him straighten the pile. She couldn't help the frown that pulled down a corner of her mouth. The night they had spent at the arcade, it hadn't been awkward, there had been no fumbling for words or energy spent on avoiding eye contact.

But now, all of a sudden, she was only aware of the fact that she had slept with this man. It didn't matter that he had been a friend after, one who had volunteered himself as a confidante. Here and now, he was a man who had been inside her, who had touched her with hands that were now arranging her patients' files.

She stared down at them as they worked; they were large hands with long fingers and blunt nails. When he had finished he looked at her and smiled. "All set?" he asked.

She couldn't help but smile back. Nuts. She was nuts. Here he was, extending more than one olive branch, which was more than she should expect considering the things she'd hurled at him in the supply closet, and all she could do was think about sex. It was actually rather chivalrous of him, she realized, to not to constantly remind her of how she had stormed into his room and begged him to take her and instead forge something of an alliance.

Feeling considerably more grateful, she beamed at him. "All set," she confirmed. "And thank you again."

He tipped his head in acknowledgement and he backed away. "It's part of my new plan."

Her brows drew together. "What plan?"

He winked before turning away from her. "My plan to be kind," he called over his shoulder.

******

Three hours later, she had made a considerable dent in the charts. The lack of human contact with patients was something she missed, but borrowing another intern's iPod had helped fill some of the silence. She paused her writing to skip a track and then resumed, holding the gray binder against her propped knees while she worked. Her nails drummed along with the beat as her other hand drew ink across the page.

When someone tapped her shoulder she nearly toppled sideways off the bed. Trying to lower her heartrate, she looked up and pulled the earbuds out.

"You nearly killed me," she accused.

He hopped onto the bed to sit next to her, his back against the wall. "Don't be so dramatic." He pulled the surgical cap off his head and folded it into his palm.

She followed the motions with her eyes. "Surgery?" she asked, unable to keep the wistful tone out of her voice

He noticed, turning to meet her gaze. "Soon, Little Grey," he promised quietly. "Soon enough."

She set her pen down and flexed her fingers. "It's not like I have anyone else to blame."

"That's true."

When she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Thanks," she said drolly. "An A in beside manner, right?"

One brow rose in reply. "Play nice, Grey, or I won't give you your present."

She tried to look around him, but he blocked her view with his body. "What is it?"

Pulling out two lidded cups, he held one of them out to her. She accepted the coffee eagerly, wrapped her hands around its heat. She took in the red patterned cup and the sleeve. "Real coffee. Snazzy."

He took a sip and extended his arm to look at it. "I know. I went _past_ the cafeteria all the way to the cart at the _other_ side of the hospital. Be grateful."

She was silent for a moment, smiling as she drank from the slit in the lid. Then: "Any interesting patients?"

"At Seattle Grace? Always."

She sighed. "I don't think Dr. Yang will ever forgive me."

He was quiet for a long moment before answering. "Maybe she's a little jealous she didn't think of it herself while she was an intern."

Lexie let out a muffled snort. "I highly doubt that. She would never do anything so stupid. Reckless, yes, stupid no."

"Oh, I don't know." He gave her a rueful grin. "It was pretty hardcore. And Cristina likes to think she's nothing if not hardcore."

The thought of inspiring her resident's envy and begrudging respect warranted a smile. Then, another thought chased it away and her smile deflated. "Hardcore or not, if Dr. Yang hates me, that pretty much kills my chances of ever learning from her."

"Cristina's your boss."

"Yes," she said slowly.

"But your boss has bosses. Many bosses. Not the least of which is me." He nudged her with his elbow. "There are other doctors to learn from in this hospital besides Yang. Let them teach you." Here his gaze softened and his voice lowered. "Let me teach you."

Her head shot up and she stared at him, wondering if he was mocking her for that one night. But his eyes were clear, and while not cold, all traces of the earlier softness she had thought she had seen were gone. Amounting it all to her being hyper sensitive, she strove for casualty.

"To being hardcore," she toasted, raising her coffee.

"To being hardcore," he echoed, bumping his cup with her own.

*******

It was raining at the end of her shift and she sighed, digging around her bag for the umbrella she always kept with her. When her fingers only met with an extra pair of underwear and her wallet, she remembered George had taken her umbrella two days ago. It had been raining then as well, but she had been coming in while George had been leaving. The most natural thing in the world had been to shove the umbrella into his grateful hands and watch him as he left.

Now she stood at the ER's entrance, tense and prepped on the balls of her feet, planning the most direct route to her car whilst avoiding all the deep puddles. Sucking in a deep breath, she tightened her grip on her bag and ran out, head lowered.

She was soaked by the time she got to her car and realized too late that had she a modicum of common sense, she would have kept her keys out and ready. Instead she cursed herself while shoving her numb hand around her bag again. Rain clung to her eyelashes and she blinked extra hard to clear her vision.

Then the rain stopped. She looked up and instead of dark sky, she saw the roof of an umbrella. And Mark Sloan's hand attached to its handle.

"You're a life saver."

"You're an idiot." He scowled at her. "What kind of person doesn't have an umbrella in Seattle?"

"I have many umbrellas," she said, still rummaging for her keys. She tilted her bag to the side to help her sort through the items. "Just not one with me."

She made contact with her key chain and pulled it out with a triumphant cry. "Success."

Holding her keys high between them so he could see, she caught the tail-end of a curious look on his face before he had time to hide it. Somewhere between affection and exasperation, it almost resembled endearment.

But she had rain and hair in her eyes. As if to affirm it, she lifted her free hand to rake her soaked hair back. A drop of rain made its way down her forehead to the tip of her nose. She felt it tickle all the way down. He followed its progress with his eyes and for one insane moment, she was dead certain he was going to kiss her.

Then she sneezed.

His face turned disapproving; the glittering look in his eyes gone.

"Allergies," she denied. "Had them all day."

Taking the keys from her cold hand, he opened her car door and she slid from the protection of the umbrella to that of her car. His hand shut the door after her. She focused her energy on clearing her windshield of rain and reversing carefully. When she looked back, he was making his way to his own car, his entire figure cloaked in black.

******

The self-proclaimed allergies were accompanied with a chill by the time she opened her front door. As she stood under the hot spray of her shower, even she was ready to admit to the beginnings of a cold. Her furious cold morphed into the flu by the time she woke up. Even without opening her eyes, she knew it was a bad one. When she finally garnered enough courage to open her eyes and roll over, she was pretty sure her head had exploded all over the sheets.

Rounds in forty-five minutes. The thought was enough to briefly entertain the idea of switching careers and teaching the second grade.

Instead she dragged her body up and out of bed, telling herself that layering clothes and drinking water was the way through this day. Pulling on a tank top, she followed it with a long-sleeved shirt, a thin sweater and then a sweatshirt. By the time she finished dressing she was hot and dizzy, but the cold water she used to clean her face and teeth helped. She avoided looking directly in the mirror and yanked her hair back into a blind knot.

The many layers made her clumsy and she dropped her keys twice before they fit into her car door. At least it had stopped raining. After pulling into the parking lot, she had only managed to open the door before her body tensed with a barrage of sneezes. The aftermath left her dizzy and she knew going inside was not a good idea, but Yang hated her enough already.

Out of breath by the time she made it in the elevator, she leaned her forehead against the cool metal of its wall. When the doors opened, she knew she had to look as bad as she felt when Dr. Bailey stopped short upon seeing her.

"Uh-uh, I don't think so. No," the other doctor said, shaking her head once. Flicking a finger in one quick, circular motion, she continued with, "Go home. Now. No."

Lexie could have kissed her as she backtracked into the elevator. Even muttering about diseased interns, the other woman was a godsend. Now she wouldn't even have to be the one to tell Yang.

When she got home, her body was on fire. Against all better judgment, she began pulling off layers the moment she shoved her door open. Leaving a trail of garments to her room, she fell into bed. Suddenly, unmercifully cold, she grabbed a corner of her covers and pulled them up to her chin.

Two minutes later, there was a pounding in her skull that woke her. She opened her eyes and was confused by the darkness. Her covers were at her ankles, she must have shoved them off at some point.

The pounding continued, but it wasn't in her head as she had originally thought. Looking in the direction of her open door, she realized someone was knocking on another one. Swallowing, then immediately regretting it as her throat had apparently sprouted knives, she stood on shaky legs. It was a slow journey to the door and the person on the other side was not patient. Half way along, Lexie was certain whoever it was would shake it down before she managed to arrive.

After pulling the door toward her, she leaned against it, afraid her legs would give out. For some strange reason, probably caused by her muggy head, it was not a huge surprise to see Mark Sloan in her dimly lit hallway, looking furious and wet. Apparently it was raining again.

She turned, not bothering to invite him inside. He closed the door behind him and watched as she made to return to her room and then opted for the shorter route to the couch.

He knew she was sick and that alone gave her free pass, but he was so angry that she was sick in the first place that he spoke anyway. "Do you really think it's a good idea to open doors to strangers when you're half-naked?"

She lowered herself down on the cushions and immediately fell horizontal. She had a brief image of her in nothing but a tank top and her boycut underwear, but it was hardly her fault. "You're not a stranger," she managed to croak out; her tongue felt unnaturally thick.

"Jesus," he muttered, bending down to pick up her discarded clothes before walking over to her. He knelt at the couch and tugged her up into a sitting position with no more effort than if she were a doll. He pulled the neckhole of her sweater down her head with one hand while anchoring her slim thighs with the other.

Because it was completely inappropriate and she was half conscious, he tried not to notice how her skin was smooth and warm. If it was warm, he told himself sternly as he fed her hands through the armholes, it was because she had a fever. But it had been so long since he'd touched her, he couldn't _not_ take a bit longer than necessary to adjust her clothes.

"No," she said, shaking her head. She pushed his hands out of the way with clumsy fingers and reached for the hem of the sweater. "It's too hot."

"Lexie," he said patiently. "It's freezing in here. Leave the sweater on." The sweater was good for her health and necessary for his sanity. Being greeted by the sight of Lexie's bare arms, legs, and upper chest had been akin to getting sucker punched. And it did nothing for his foul mood.

He saw a blanket on the couch and enveloped it around her twice over before leaving to go to her bedroom. He wanted to dally a while, examine the picture frames and knickknacks in detail, but there would be time for that later.

"What time is it?" she said with sudden clarity, all the drowsiness gone from her voice.

Startled, he answered, " Seven."

"But it's so _dark_."

He couldn't find any sweatpants in her drawers and came back to the living room with her comforter. Tucking it around her, he said very carefully, "It's seven at night, Lexie."

Her eyes widened. "But I only slept for two minutes." Then, the lucidity gone as quickly as it had struck, her eyelids fluttered and she was asleep.

Whenever she stirred, a straw was against her lips and the fire in her throat was put out. Tablets gently coaxed their way past her teeth, followed by more fluids.

There was a moment when she had been able to open her eyes to see the image of Dr. Mark Sloan hovering over her terrible kitchen trying to get a light on the stove. She wanted to tell him not to bother; that it was broken and definitely not worth that thunderous look he had on his face, but then her lids felt like they weighed a ton each and darkness overtook.

When she awoke next, the room was dark again. She shifted her head to the left in a tentative motion and, when no dizziness threatened to overwhelm her, she grew bold and tried to sit up. Successful, she looked around her room trying to determine why she felt so displaced.

A shiver rippled down her spine and she searched for her robe. She found it half under her bed and wrapped the thin cotton around her body. She dimly remembered stripping at her door, trying to alleviate the stifling heat, but that felt like a lifetime ago…not to mention a stupid idea considering it was winter and their heat was tempermental on a good day and nonexistent on a bad one.

She found her phone on her nightstand and saw that it was nearly six in the morning…two days after she had attempted to show up for her shift at the hospital. Snapping it shut, she frowned when a fuzzy image of being dressed appeared. It dissipated before she could get a tangible hold on it, but the answer came soon enough.

Crazy dreams, she realized.

She had had crazy dreams featuring Mark Sloan. As she made her way to the bathroom, she tried to pinpoint exactly what she had dreamt. The most obvious answer when putting dreams and Mark Sloan together was of a sexual nature, but she had the peculiar feeling that wasn't it. It puzzled her while she brushed her teeth, causing her to pause with the toothbrush dangling out of the corner of her mouth while she stared at her reflection, willing her memory to cooperate.

It wasn't until she was standing in the shower that she realized how weak she still was. She sat under the spray for a moment, willing her heart to slow down as her fingers worked on washing the staleness from her hair. Fifteen minutes later she emerged from her bedroom, clad in running pants and a sweater. One hand was still rubbing her wet hair when she stopped short. And let the towel fall from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

Mark Sloan was camped on her lumpy couch, his long legs spilling over its edge while his linked fingers rested on his stomach.

It was surreal and her eyes bounced off various surfaces around her apartment as she tried to figure out what to do. Last time she had seen him sleeping she had been sneaking out, trying to avoid a confrontation, but where the hell could she go now?

Old habits proved to die hard and she found herself tiptoeing as she moved across the apartment floor. She heated water in the microwave and made tea, steeping the bag as she came closer to the couch. She stared and sipped, sipped and stared, trying to determine if she should wake him or let him sleep. He looked exhausted.

She was sitting in a chair across the room when he stirred. Both hands curled around her second cup of tea, she gave him a timid smile.

"Hi," she said.

He pulled a hand down his face and sat up, elbows on his knees as he gouged his eyes with the heels of his palms. Then he looked up at her, her entire body folded into the chair, feet tucked under her.

"Hi," he said back, his voice husky from sleep.

The room felt strangely intimate and she didn't know what to say. "Thank you for moving me to the bed." Then, because it seemed so inadequate, she added, "Thank you for everything."

He stood up then, pushing his hands into his back as he stretched. Her eyes followed the movement before shifting down to stare at her mug.

"It was nothing."

It was on the tip of her tongue to say staying with her for two days and feeding her fluids and drugs was far from nothing, but she remained quiet. She had had time to recollect his ministrations while he slept and thought perhaps he would be embarrassed should she press.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asked, his eyes taking in her damp hair and pale face.

"Good." It was automatic rather than honest and she paused to reassess. Then she amended, "Maybe not good, but definitely better."

Her head fell back against her shoulders to look at his face as he stood over her. When his hand came out to her face, her eyes shut of their own accord. His palm was smooth and warm over her forehead.

"Fever's broken."

"Yes."

"You stopped sneezing."

"Yes."

"Cough's gone."

"Yes."

"You're still too pale though."

"Why did you come here?"

The loss of his hand from her skin as he moved away was tangible. "You were sick." His face was bleak for a moment. "No one should be alone when they're sick."

"But how did you know I was sick?"

He shrugged with one negligent shoulder. "Bailey mentioned it."

It wasn't a satisfying answer and it made her wary, but she let it slide. Digging into his motives wouldn't be appreciated, especially when she should just be grateful. It said something about the state of her current relationships that kindness begat suspicion.

On that thought, she looked around the dingy apartment. "Did George ever come home?"

His back stiffened at the question. "No. Boy Wonder wasn't here to play Florence Nightingale. Sorry."

His tone was curt and stung. She blinked at the sudden change in temperature, and she wasn't thinking of the apartment.

"No, I—" She let her voice stop when he shoved his arms through his jacket and flipped the collar. "You're going?" Before he could tell her with his trademark sarcasm that it was a dumb question, she did it for him with a self-deprecating smile. "Of course you are—you've done more than enough. You _should_ go—thank you." Her words were as choppy as they were inarticulate, but he made no comment.

At the door, her hand remained on the handle while she waited for him to cross the threshold.

"So I'll see you around," she said, for lack of any other comment.

"Will you?" He no longer sounded terse, but slightly amused. She had the feeling they were talking about different things.

Unable to hide her confusion, she just stared at him. He stared back, his eyes steady as he said, "You made a lovely prom queen." Then: "Good-bye, Lexie," as he turned to walk away.

She said her own good-bye to an empty hallway.

*******

She returned to the hospital that afternoon, unable to stay in her depression-inducing apartment any longer. George was the first person she ran into and she wished she had thought to run some blusher across her cheeks or put on some chapstick—anything to lend some color to her face.

"Hey," he greeted, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I heard you were sick. Sorry I haven't been home; I've been sleeping in the on-call room and keeping tabs on Shephard's patient." He continued on as he walked past her. "Hope you feel better."

She blinked and he was gone, leaving no space for her reply. Her best friend? No wonder she hadn't been able to believe Mark Sloan was on her couch playing nursemaid, her alleged best friend couldn't bother slowing down long enough for a conversation. It was slightly embarrassing to be that starved for empathy.

So when Sadie bounded over to her, Lexie couldn't help but share her smile. "What are we so happy about?"

Flinging an arm over her shoulders, Sadie positively beamed. "Mommy and Daddy say we're not grounded anymore," she sang.

She stopped short, not daring to believe it. "You mean…?"

Sadie nodded. "Yang's not exactly throwing us a welcome back party, but Bailey made her tell us this morning."

Lexie actually felt her health improve. "Do you have a case already?"

"Mmm." Sadie's hum hid a mischievousness her eyes couldn't. "Two actually."

"Whaddya got?" Lexie pulled her coat and scarf off, shivering in the locker room before yanking a scrub top over her head.

"Man who went through a windshield and Girl who decided to use herself as kindling."

Lexie tied her scrub bottoms as they walked out together.

"So? Which one do you want?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, I snagged one for you."

Lexie couldn't help the grin that tugged the corners of her mouth. "So sweet."

Sadie tried her hand at false modesty as she handed Lexie one of the charts. "Yeah, well, anything for the girl who botched up my appendectomy."

******

In the end, Lexie took the burn victim, who made it two hours before dying. Two parents survived the girl, a father who threw lighter fluid on her as punishment and a mother who was too terrified to protest.

Next came the two teenagers who raced their Mustangs on the freeway followed by the victims they left in their 120mph wake. Of the seven people involved in the crashes, the only two who made it long enough to take into surgery were the teenagers. Both bled out within thirty minutes.

And finally, around three in the morning, the paramedics brought in the body of a boy who had been kidnapped from his home the week prior. Sodomized and stabbed, he still had a faint pulse when Lexie examined him on the gurney. Because she had managed to control his bleeding, she had actually believed he'd survive. So when he coded a few minutes later and his heart completely ignored the defibrillator, it was the fifth patient she had had die on her in thirteen hours.

"Call it, Grey," Cristina said behind her.

She wasn't surprised. She had had to call all five of them. Maybe it was delayed punishment or hazing or Cristina finally teaching. Maybe it was mindless cruelty. "Time of death: 3:24," she said, peeling off one stained glove, before making sure to tuck it into the other.

"Tell the family and then find me—" Cristina's voice and words faded as Lexie left the room.

She walked down the hallway while trying to remember where the closest bathroom was. A trauma must have come in because Sadie ran past her, followed by two nurses. Shaking her head at the questioning look Sadie shot her, Lexie's body jerked back as she collided shoulders with one of the nurses.

She made it to the restroom in time to be mortifyingly sick. After she rinsed her mouth and ran water over her cheeks and wrists, she knew she should find the family. She could almost hear her own voice recite the words: "I'm sorry, we did everything we could, but—"

Then she should clean up that boy's body so his parents could say good-bye. And then she should find Dr. Yang and get her next assignment, one that could possibly have her end up in the OR.

Instead she took a hard left and all but staggered into an empty on-call room. The room was a dimly lit gray and the color was strangely soothing. She chose the top bunk because she liked being closer to the ceiling.

She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids and willed the burning, gritty feeling behind them to cease. Her hands were freezing and the chill was welcome. She wished the tears would hurry up. Once she cried, the burning would go away, her chest would feel lighter and she'd be able to get back to work. Experience told her this way was efficient; not crying—not crying was the harder way.

So she grew increasingly angry with herself when the tears wouldn't come. She tried thinking of dead puppies, of the families ruined because of two dumb kids in dumber cars, of orphans. Nothing. Even going through the final scenes of Beaches and Schindler's List didn't do it.

She flopped onto her stomach and slapped the pillow away, resting her forehead on her stacked wrists. She heard the door open and knew who it was. Rolling her head to the side, her eyes were level with his blue ones. He stood there, very still and very quiet.

"The world is an ugly place," she said and barely recognized her voice. It sounded like gravel.

When he didn't say anything, just stared at her, she continued. "It's an ugly place, with ugly people who do ugly things."

"I know."

Strangely she found that concession infuriating. Her eyes narrowing into dark slits, she snapped, "Yeah, I'm sure. But you're doing your part: fixing noses and tightening skin so we can all have a more beautiful earth."

She waited for his anger, wanted him to snap at her, but he didn't. In one fluid motion, he raised himself onto the bunk with her, stretching his body parallel to hers.

"I'm not naïve," she said to the ceiling, her arms at her sides. "I know what comes with the job, I know people die, but…"

"But they also live," he said, looking straight up and talking to the same audience she had.

"Yeah. They also live. And today—today it felt like nobody lived."

Wordlessly, his hand filled the narrow column of space between them and brushed her fingers. She turned her hand over and felt his palm rest against hers.

"I'm sorry about what I said. Your job—what you do—it doesn't…I mean, it's…"

He gave her hand a light squeeze and she knew it was okay to stop.

She pulled in a breath that seemed to rattle through her. The sound filled the nearly empty room. She tried to change the subject. "How—" she tried again when her voice wavered. "How did you know I was Prom Queen?"

He rolled his head to look at her profile. "There's a picture on your dresser."

Her smile was wan. "My mom took that when I came home from the dance." He watched then as her face crumpled and her body beneath her scrubs heaved. Then she was crying and choking on words that wouldn't come out in any order. She sat up, legs crossed as she tried to breath. "My mother died alone."

Tears clumped her eyelashes together until they were dark spikes against the hollows of her eyes. He sat up with her and watched her hiccups, afraid to touch her; she looked so brittle, he thought she might actually break.

"She spent her life making sure she was there for us and we weren't there wh—when—"

He shushed her, rubbing her back in small circles. When her body stopped shaking and her breathing steadied, he guided her back down, this time on her side. Strands of hair clung to her eyelashes and he lifted them away, smoothing her hair down.

For a long while he drew invisible patterns on her back and arm and she eventually leaned into him, tucking her face into his scrub top. She grew still and he thought she might have fallen asleep, so he kept his voice low.

She felt the vibrations of his voice through his chest. It hummed through her body.

"People start wars, they go hungry. They can be cruel. But the world isn't that ugly."

When she didn't answer, he thought he was right about her sleeping. Then she said, her voice small and drowsy, "How can you be so sure?"

Her legs gravitated toward his and he accommodated them easily, slipping her ankles between his calves.

"Because the world had your mother, and she had you."

And when he angled his head back to look down at her, her eyes were dry and she looked peaceful because, he realized, she was asleep.

**_AN: For those of you who noticed, I'm sorry I slipped into Mark's POV. I couldn't not write him in it even though this story has been consistently narrated from Lexie's POV from the get-go. Switching like that is terrible writing technique, I know, but I'm hoping you all will just forgive me? =)_**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Silk and Skin

They looked like they were arguing. Dr. Shephard shook his head, and oddly enough, not a strand of his perfect hair moved. For a moment, she focused on that, her eyes narrowing in concentration as her head angled to the right. Then, blinking hard, she forced herself to focus on the bigger picture.

Dr. Sloan scoffed at whatever his friend said, rolling his eyes as he tipped his chin up. He looked as if he were ignoring an oft-heard lecture and too bored to bother disguising it. Then he nodded in agreement.

Unsatisfied, Dr. Shephard pressed, throwing some hand gestures in the mix as he pressed his point home.

Apparently it was a point Dr. Sloan had already heard, because the impatience of his response was evident even across the hall.

Then they started up from the beginning: Dr. Shephard shaking his head and Dr. Sloan rolling his eyes. The cycle could go on forever; she knew, she'd been waiting for a good moment to interrupt for fifteen minutes.

Straightening her shoulders, she tucked her chart under her arm and tried to walk forward with purpose. She would make her voice brusque, business-like, professional. Straight to heart of it; no tangents allowed.

They stopped talking as soon as she arrived so there was no need to lead in with her planned "Excuse me". That her carefully laid intro was already thrown off course compounded with the fact that both men were staring at her as if she would suddenly start tap-dancing had her fumbling. "I—ah—um." She cleared her throat and tried again. She nodded once to each of them. "Dr. Shephard, Dr. Sloan." Then she angled her body to the former. "Dr. Shephard, Dr. Torres says she could use a neuro consult. Her patient's been experiencing bouts of temporary blindness."

He didn't meet her eyes once the entire time she spoke and when she followed his gaze, it led to Dr. Sloan, who, in turn, was staring at her. When she met his eyes, he smiled broadly, as if amused. Startled, she turned back to Dr. Shephard, who was practically glowering.

Stuck in a twisted triangle with no idea how she got involved, Lexie stumbled through a recitation of how long and frequent the patient's episodes were, acutely uncomfortable and aware that the boss she was speaking to wasn't looking at her while the boss she was trying not to look at, lest he remind her of her complete breakdown in front of him, was doing nothing _but_ looking at her.

"So," she finally said, eager to leave. "Can I tell Dr. Torres you're available?"

Then he finally flicked his gaze onto her. He took the proffered chart and flipped through its pages. "We can go down now." He moved away from his friend and clearly expected her to fall in line with him. She made it a point not to look at the man who remained.

"Thank you, Dr. Shephard," she said, hustling to match his strides.

"Good-bye, Dr. Grey." His voice came from behind her and it was so unexpected she nearly stumbled.

"Er—I—Bye, Dr. Sloan," she said, looking over one shoulder.

"Keep moving, Dr. Grey." The doctor next to her looked livid.

"Yes, sir."

****

Hours later, when she stood next to Dr. Shephard in the OR, she was holding a retractor and feeling like a million bucks. When she let her eyes shift up to the gallery, Sadie was there with a bag of chips, sticking her tongue out at her before giving her a quick thumbs-up.

She smiled beneath her surgical mask and it must have reached her eyes because Dr. Shephard noticed. "Care to share, Grey?"

Her smile faltered. "Just happy to be back in the OR, Dr. Shephard."

He nodded once, the magnifying goggles moving with him. "I bet." He waited a beat before asking, very carefully. "Any other reason?"

That one threw her. She wished he'd ask her something about the surgery instead. She'd flipped through the research an hour ago and had it all ready for recitation. "Sir?"

He lifted a shoulder with seeming nonchalance. "Any other reason you're happy?"

Her brow furrowed above her surgical mask. She looked at a scrub nurse who just shrugged. "I—uh—not really?" She phrased it as a question because there was definitely a test here and she had no clue how to pass.

He looked up from his work and she couldn't make out the expression on his face. But he seemed to believe her because he dropped the issue. Or seemed to. "Have you done your Plastics rotation?"

For one insane instant, she thought he knew about that night she spent with Mark Sloan. Then she managed to disregard the suspicion as ridiculous before answering. "Not officially, but Dr. Yang sometimes assigns me cases under Dr. Sloan."

"Under Dr. Sloan," he repeated.

With. Dammit, she should have said 'with'. No need for anyone to suspect or imagine she had ever been under Dr. Sloan. Even though she had.

And liked it. Damn. She focused her attention on the retractor.

To withdraw or amend or stutter would give the double entendre merit. So even though it killed her, she said, "Yes, sir," and bore it.

"And how do you like it? Working with Dr. Sloan, that is."

She tried to tell herself she was just being paranoid. "He's a very good teacher," she said firmly. "But I don't think Plastics is the route for me."

Her answer seemed to surprise him and that was inexplicably gratifying. "That's good," he said slowly.

"Good, sir?"

She knew he was grinning because his eyes crinkled above his mask. "Plastics is fluff. Neuro is where heroes are made."

She laughed. "I'm sure Dr. Dixon would disagree."

All of a sudden generous, he added, "I can make a concession for Cardio."

"Just not Plastics."

He met her eyes. "Just not Plastics." Then, as an afterthought he said, a smile reaching his eyes, "And you can tell Mark I said that."

Her reply came easily. "I'm sure you see more of Dr. Sloan than I do to tell him, sir." She angled closer to the operating table to get a better look at the exposed skull. When she straightened, Dr. Shephard was staring at her.

"I never thought I'd have to warn him about you," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. Drawing in a breath, he flexed his upper shoulders. Then, business as usual: "Dr. Grey, right here—what are we looking at?"

*******

"I'm not doing it."

"Please?"

"No way. Why on earth would I trade an organ harvest for rhinoplasty?"

"Because I'm begging you."

Lexie snorted, sliding a chart into its slot before picking up another one. "Keep begging."

Sadie winced, favoring one side while her palm went to her abdomen.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just that when it rains, my scar aches. I can almost feel my appendix even though it's gone…and it rains a lot in Seattle."

Lexie rolled her eyes. "Just so I know, how long are you planning to milk that?" Defeated, she handed over the chart.

Sadie was all smiles, phantom appendix forgotten as she plucked the binder from her fingers. "I figure it'll keep a month longer before it starts to curdle."

"It's already cheese," Lexie called after her retreating figure. She shook her head and flipped open the chart Sadie had left for her. Groaning, she slapped it shut. There had to be more than one plastic surgeon in this hospital, but damned if she'd ever seen any of them.

He was charting at the nurse's station when she found him. His pen ran out and he shook it before asking a nurse for another one. He smiled when she furnished it and Lexie felt something in her stomach turn over. It was unexpected and unwelcome and had her frowning by the time she approached him.

"Grey," he said, acknowledging her with an inclined head. Then he went back to his work and she let her spine relax. As long as he was pretending she hadn't insulted him, cried on him and then slept on him last time she had seen him, she was his biggest fan.

"I'm your intern for Mr. Kincaid's rhinoplasty. It's on the board for two today, is that still right?"

He looked up. "What happened to your sidekick? The one who lets you play doctor?"

She gave him a quelling look. "Sadie's not my sidekick." Then she turned thoughtful, adding, "If anything, I'm her sidekick."

He looked bored so she hurried up. "We traded cases."

That interested him. To prevent him from thinking she was a stalker, she said, "I had an organ harvest she wanted and wasn't above using guilt to get."

"Ah," he replied, as if he understood. Then he was walking and she scrambled after him. "Let's see if you not only have the appendix between the two of you, but also the brain."

Afterward, when they were scrubbing their hands, he looked over at her. "Would you like to get a drink after you're done tonight?"

She nodded, running her wrists under the water. "Sure, I think a bunch of us are going to Joe's anyway."

"No," he said patiently, his words deliberate. "Not at Joe's, I'm asking if you would like to get a drink somewhere away from the hospital." He dried his hands and discarded the thin cloth. "And then maybe have dinner."

Thrown, she concentrated on making sure her hands were thoroughly clean. Even after he was done and stopped the water flow, she stood there rinsing. "I—You—Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner." Here his tone grew impatient, defensive even. "It's something people have in between lunch one day and breakfast the next."

"I'm familiar."

"Well?" There it was again: his irritation. She couldn't think with him standing over her, putting a time limit on her answer. Why did he have to be so damn tall?

"What?" She couldn't help looking surprised and it seemed to aggravate him further. "Oh—yes, sure. Dinner sounds…" An adjective. Any adjective. "Good."

He nodded once, the motion curt. Then he looked down at the sink where her hands were motionless under the water flow. "You're going to prune." And then he left.

She spent time she should have been charting trying to figure what 'dinner' meant. She wasn't an idiot; she knew what dinner with Mark Sloan equaled. It meant you'd be lucky to make it to the restaurant without falling into bed with him on the way.

But she'd already done that, she conceded ruefully, and there hadn't even been the pretense of a meal involved. So if it weren't for the tiny fact that she'd already slept with him, she would be certain that dinner was a date with the sole objective of getting into her pants.

But this dinner wasn't a date. Mark Sloan didn't graze pastures already…grazed? He was a bull who liked new cows. Lexie sighed. Her head hurt. It was a sad day when one referred to oneself as an old cow.

Then again, she thought guiltily, it could be a nice gesture. Hadn't he already belied rumors by being a source of comfort more than once? Plus, someone who looked like him didn't need to lay foundation by talking about feelings and playing nursemaid to get a roll in the hay. Feeling like a heel for trying to come up with ulterior motives, she ordered herself to stop thinking and do doctorly things.

She had just finished post-op on Mr. Kincaid when George found her.

"Hey," he said. "You going to Joe's after your shift?" Looking above her head, he greeted, "Hi, Dr. Sloan."

Lexie spun around to see him at the nurse's station next to her. His head bent, he didn't look up as he grunted, "O'Malley."

She turned back to George, all to aware of his presence behind her. "I—er—no, not tonight."

He looked confused. "But Sadie said you were."

"I was." She wished he would move or take her up on her cues to continue this conversation while walking. This was not something she wanted overheard. "But then my plans changed."

"You're not staying here are you?" George laughed. "Come on, Lexie, I know you're glad to be allowed back in the OR, but you have to leave sometime."

This coming from the guy who left her home sick for two days while he slept in an on-call room to chase a good surgery. That was unfair and she knew it, but that didn't stop the thought. Being snide, she realized, felt damn good sometimes.

"No, I'm not staying here." It was entirely too hot in the hospital. Lexie could feel eyes boring into her back with every single word exchanged. She couldn't very well call it a date in front of him even if it was just a lie to fend off George's curiosity. But she couldn't negate her entire plans and risk insulting him. "I just—"

"Good," George interrupted, looking wholeheartedly relieved. "I really wanted to talk to you tonight."

She thought back to all that time ago when he had said something similar. Only to never show. They had never discussed it; she hadn't brought it up and he hadn't apologized.

"But I—" she began. Then he hugged her.

"I'll see you tonight," he said, giving her upper arms a squeeze before walking off.

Stunned, she turned a few degrees, bracing her arms against the counter. It took a second, but she gathered enough courage to look at the man who hadn't yet left. And then knew she was in about ten kinds of trouble.

There was only a moment to look at his face before he turned neatly on his heel and took off, his lab coat forming a clean arc behind him, but she'd caught the full brunt of his expression.

She groaned. He'd looked furious. She'd never seen his eyes that cold before. Not even when she'd called him pathetic in the on-call room after their night together.

She groaned again and took off after him.

He was wearing down the landing of the stairwell when she caught up with him. Pacing back and forth, he showed no signs of letting up, even when he saw her standing a few steps above him.

"What?" he barked.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I—I'll tell George I can't."

He laughed then, the noise echoing in the stairwell. It sounded harsh and humorless and she winced. "No, Lassie, by all means, don't. Go hear what he has to say. I know I'm curious."

She bristled at the nickname. "What the hell has gotten into you?" she demanded.

Another laugh as he turned away from her, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Then he whirled around to face her, the motion so quick she drew back out of instinct even though they were a good yard away from each other. "Are you sleeping with him?"

"What?" The question was so absurd all she could do was blink.

He took that as confirmation. He nodded as if he'd just reached a conclusion. "Well, that's not surprising."

The words were so matter-of-fact, her eyes sharpened as she walked down the remaining steps to stand in front of him. "Why do you say that?"

Bending down, his voice lowered into a taunt. "Because I know just how little effort it takes to make you wet."

Her palm cracked against his cheek. The sound reverberated through the stairs and reached her ears for the second time. She was shaking when she looked up at him. There was an angry red mark above the trim facial hair that lined his jaw. Yet her blow hadn't even forced his head to turn. In fact, she was pretty sure her hand throbbed way worse than his face.

He was still for a long moment and she knew she should leave him in the stairwell, but she was still shaking and uncertain if she had the energy to make it up the stairs for a grand exit.

So they stood frozen, glaring at each other like boxers in a ring. His eyes were some metallic silver she didn't recognize. The red mark showed no signs of alleviating and Lexie almost knew shame for her moment of violence.

Almost.

And then he reacted.

His hands caught her around the waist and physically hauled her up against the wall before she had time to do anything but unhinge her mouth in surprise. Eyes wide, she stared at him, trying to decide whether it was more important to start breathing again or form words.

He took the choice out of her hands when he leaned in to kiss her. His mouth slanted over hers in an expression of such anger, there was no way to respond to it. There was nothing there that was even remotely reminiscent of the night in his hotel; it was like kissing a stranger.

That he could kiss her like a punishment enraged her and she pushed the heels of her palms against his shoulders to get him away from her. He dropped his hands from her waist and took a half step back. Even though he had released her, she shoved him again for measure.

There was a half a foot of space between them for a moment before he kissed her again. Again, she slapped him away, fury etched in every feature of her face. They stared at each other, the sound of their harsh breathing between them.

The third time he tried, her hands were up and ready for battle, but they never met their mark because this time, this time he kissed her like he had that night. Warmth unraveled from his mouth to her abdomen. She had no idea she how much she had missed this until it was offered to her again. And then it was sheer insanity that she had ever done without.

She leaned into him, her hands bracing herself against his shoulders instead of warding him off. When he flicked the tip of his tongue to the corner of her mouth, the desire that ran through her was so potent, the muscles of her waist clenched.

Then he released her abruptly, his hands leaping off of her as if he had touched a hotplate. He stared at her for a long moment, still wearing his anger.

"I don't—" she started.

He nodded grimly, one hand reaching up to clamp around his neck. "I know you don't."

_Understand_, she finished silently as he resumed pacing. In midstride, he swooped back to stand in front of her, the motion so sudden she jerked. But he didn't touch her. He glared at her, his face so close so could draw in his breath.

"You never say my name."

"What?"

"My name. You never use it."

"That's not true, I—"

He moved back from her. "You say 'Dr. Sloan' at the hospital, but you never call me anything when we're alone."

She focused on a spot behind his right shoulder. "I guess I don't know how to call you." She swallowed hard and he watched the smooth column of her throat shift. "Or what to call you."

Even though her words were soft, he jerked away from her as if her reply had been physical. Then he laughed. "I've held your head while you slept and you don't know what to call me." He used the steps to get away from her.

She watched his retreating back. When the door to the stairwell shut, the sound vibrated down to her and she couldn't help but flinch at the finality.

Sucking in a deep breath, she stared at the door he had just crossed. She waited a beat, maybe two, before realizing the choice was already made. Taking the steps two at a time, she bounded after him, seeing his familiar form slip into an on-call room just as she exited the stairwell.

Nearly mowing down two nurses in the process, her fingers grabbed the outside handle before his had let go of its counterpart on the other side of the door. A tug of war ensued before she pushed her way in to stand between him and the door. The stunned look on his face made her realize he had had no idea who was on the other side and had probably let her win out of sheer confusion.

His sigh came out ragged. "Lexie," he said, his eyes closed and his forehead twisted in a cross between control and torture. "Even you can't be this naïve." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.

"I'm not," she said softly, reaching behind her. The click of her pushing in lock stilled his movements.

He raised his hands to cup her head, but hesitated before touching her. Floating an inch away from her hair, he kept them there before changing his mind and letting his fingertips trail along her collarbone. One hand cupped her throat and she breathed in the scent of his soap and aftershave.

He ducked his head and she was ready, her face upturned, eyes open. But he didn't kiss her. He was so close she could count his eyelashes. Their noses bumped as he angled his head one way then the other, but still he didn't kiss her.

By the time he moved his hands to run through the ends of her hair before tugging them lightly, she was strung tighter than a piano wire. She raised her chin just a notch, as if to have their lips meet out of accident rather than design, but he inclined his head to the left by a fraction. The trim hair along his jaw grazed her lips, the texture abrasive and soft all at once.

And then she knew. He was waiting for her, so that later, there was no mistake that she had wanted this. Wanted him.

Eyelids half shut, she wound her fingers around the cloth of his scrub top to steady her. Then, holding his gaze, she kissed him once. The brush of her lips against his was gentle, almost nonexistent, but the bite she gave his lower lip afterward was just this side of painful. Emboldened by the elevated heartbeat under her palms, she let her tongue soothe the same spot, her eyes gauging his reaction.

His arms were at his side and he was still long enough to give her doubts before grabbing her waist and yanking her to him. He palmed the crown of her head while guiding her body down to the narrow bed.

He leaned over her supine form, keeping the brunt of his weight off her by staying on his elbows while his hands framed her face.

"Lexie," he breathed into her hair.

She murmured something unintelligible and reached for the drawstring of his pants. He stilled her hands with one of his own. With a dexterity and speed that should have been alarming, she found herself naked instead. It was a small victory when she managed to create some space between them in order to yank his shirt off. The cloth barely hit the floor before he was kissing her again, his hands cupping her jawline, physically keeping her fused to him.

"Lexie," he said again some time later, his fingertips dancing across her skin in a diagonal from one shoulder, through the valley between her breasts, to hipbone.

She said nothing, avoiding his mouth to bury her face in the space where his neck and shoulder met. She breathed him in once, twice, before kissing his skin. There was a thin film of sweat that she traced with her tongue.

"Lexie."

She didn't listen, twining her legs to wrap low on his hips. When she felt the evidence of his own desire press against her abdomen, she pulled the skin of his earlobe between her tongue and teeth and knew satisfaction when his breath whooshed out of him.

Tunneling all ten of his fingers through her hair, he pushed her away until her head was on the pillow and she was staring up at him. When she tried to move, he held tight, anchoring her head in place. Palms at her temples, he looked down at her.

"Say my name."

"What?"

He repeated himself and when she still looked lost and dazed, he continued. "I want you to be damn certain who's here with you. I don't want you thinking or wishing or pretending I'm George."

Her eyes were glazed and her mouth was red and bruised from his. She shook her head, the movement restricted by the hands still tangled in her hair. "Who?" she croaked.

As soon as the word left her mouth, he sank into her. Her back arched and her hands went up to link behind his neck. Their foreheads met as their bodies formed a rhythm. His fingers fluttered from her bent knee, up their thigh, to rest at her hip. His palm grinded against the bone, pinning her.

Their breathing heavy and commingling, she let one hand slide down his neck. Her thumb traced the curve of his jaw and lower lip; she inhaled sharply when he nipped the skin between his teeth. One hand still hard on her hip, he raised the other to grasp her hand and lace their fingers as their rhythm increased.

"I—I…" she tried and failed, but it didn't matter.

"I know," he said, his voice low and thready. "I know. Soon."

When the first shudders rippled through her body and into his, she gasped, her hands flying to cover her face. Only one made it because he refused to release its twin as they both toppled over the edge. With her eyes shut and one hand covering her mouth to muffle her cries, he thought for one terrible moment she was weeping.

"Lexie," he demanded, when their bodies had stilled. "Open your eyes."

When she obeyed, he met her gaze, brown and soft and dry.

Relief was warm as it spread through him and he relaxed against her, ducking his head to kiss her collarbone. His mouth rested on the small triangle at the base of her throat and he felt her pulse beneath his lips.

Their hands still joined, she used her free arm to cradle his head. Her chin brushed the top of his head and she stroked his face aimlessly. Two minutes. Two minutes, she thought, and she'd get up to put her clothes back on. Their breathing steadied together. She had thirty seconds left when she fell asleep, her fingers still around his.

AN: I would love criticism, thoughts etc! Just don't yell, please. =)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Truth and Consequence

Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he had left. She first felt gratitude that no one had come into the room and seen her sprawled naked on the lower bunk. But then she opened her eyes and saw that he had been careful to pull a blanket up to her chin and tuck it around her.

Keeping the scratchy blanket around her body, she dressed quickly and checked her pager. Her shift had ended over an hour ago. After her scrubs were back on, she sat on the edge of the bunk for a moment, palms on thighs. Folding them into fists, she hit the mattress once and then bounded off.

She traded her scrubs for jeans and a green sweater before slamming her locker shut. Scarf in hand, she wound it around her while running toward the hospital doors.

"Slow down, Grey," Dr. Webber called as they crossed each other in the hall.

She toned it down to a speed walk until he turned a corner and then she was off again. It wasn't until she crossed the glass doors that she realized she had forgotten her coat. There was no way she was going back now. Instead she ran through the parking lot and into her car, blasting the heat as she reversed. As she found the main road, the lights of Joe's bar illuminated the interior of her car for a fraction of a second. She didn't bother looking out the window.

********

Her fingers played with the strap of her bag while she waited. Foot tapping to the elevator music she had heard on her way up, her spine straightened when the knob turned.

"Hello, Mark," she said.

Maybe if it had been all that time ago, before they really knew each other, she'd think the deliberate greeting made no difference to him. But it wasn't all that time ago, it was now, and she knew him. She knew to look for the way his Adam's apple convulsed, betraying his reaction and belying his seeming apathy.

When it became apparent he wasn't going to invite her in, she moved around him, turning to him again only when she was in the middle of the room.

He closed the door behind him and while his body faced her, his eyes were trained on a corner of the hotel suite. She had the oddest sense of déjà vu, but then he met her gaze and there was no mistake about it: everything was different. They were different.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought we were having dinner?" Reproach was evident in her voice and he didn't respond kindly to it.

"I thought you had a date with O'Malley," he shot back.

She shrugged with indifference and moved further into the room, lifting her arms to discard her scarf.

"Why aren't you wearing a coat?"

"I forgot."

His sigh was exasperated. "Are you _trying_ to get sick again?" He gave her his back as he poured himself a drink. He didn't offer her one.

She smiled, lowering herself onto the foot of the carefully made bed. Her hands on either side of her, she picked invisible lint off the comforter. "If I do, I have you to take care of me."

Entirely too flippant and assured, her tone wasn't received well. His eyes narrowed into metallic blue slits. "Don't count on it," he said tightly. Making it a point to sit on an armchair near the table, he lifted one ankle to rest on the opposite knee. Slumped in the chair, he stared at her over the rim of his glass.

He wasn't going to make this easy on her.

She sighed heavily. "Okay, truth time. I owe you an apology."

One brow arched up, but he remained quiet, studying her from across the room.

She sandwiched her hands between her denim-clad thighs. "Before I go to bed, I brush my hair and then I floss. In that order. Brush and floss. Do you know why?"

"Because hygiene is important to you?"

Ignoring the tone, she continued, "Because it's a habit. It's not something I stop and think about. I never wonder: 'Hey, why not switch it up?' or 'Do I really _want_ to brush and floss?"

He squinted at her. "Is there a point to this?"

She squinted back. "Yes."

Making a show of checking his watch, he said, "Is there a chance you might be reaching it soon?"

Being a total beast was a right he had earned. So she took a deep breath and let it go. "Helping George, caring about what he thought…trying…it all became a habit. I'd been so used to wanting him to want me, it never occurred to me that what I wanted…" She looked up, hoping to meet his eyes, but he was staring at the nightstand. "…could change and I—"

"A habit?"

"Yes," she shifted uncomfortably as he stood. "I—"

"A habit."

"Well, it's not the best meta—"

He snorted. "I'll say. 'Habit'."

Irritated, she stood as well. "Yes, well, we all have them. Take yours for interrupting people, for instance."

He glared at her and she glared back. Breaking eye contact, he went to pour himself another drink. "You should go."

"No."

"No?" The glass made a terrible sound as he slammed it down. And the glare was back.

"No." Shrugging, she sat back down, reclining against the pillows as if she belonged there.

He planted his hands low on his hips. "Dammit, Grey, get out."

She shook her head. "Not until I'm good and ready."

"You realize I'm your attending?"

That brought her feet to the ground as she sat ramrod straight. "Oh, so now you're my attending? Were you my attending when you were bringing me coffee or taking care of me or throwing me against walls?"

Color flushed high across his cheekbones. "I—"

"No, you don't talk now. I talk. You listen." With her index finger accusing him, she came closer. When she reached him, she poked his chest to punctuate her words. "This is half your fault, you know? All that garbage about when you like someone you let them know and life being too short and blah, blah, bullshit." As she stepped forward, her pointer finger a weapon, he moved back until his legs met the armchair.

"How exactly did you let me know, Mark? By calling me derogatory nicknames? Or did you make a move? I've heard about the way Mark Sloan makes a move and bringing me coffee isn't a move—it's as vague as decorating someone's locker." She was shouting now, towering over him after he slumped back into the chair.

"I asked you out on a date."

Here she slowed down. "That did make me wonder," she admitted, pacing in front of him. "But then I thought you were being kind, just like all those other times."

"Kind?" he echoed. "I'm not kind."

"Yes, you damn well are!" Back to shouting it seemed. Then she stopped in front of him and smiled, changing tactics. Holding his gaze, she braced herself against his shoulders as she sat on the chair with him, her knees digging into the cushion on either side of him.

Taking in the sudden mood swing, he stared at her as if she'd grown another head. When her arms lifted to link around his neck, his fingers circled her wrists to tug them free. She refused to budge.

"When you think about it," she said thoughtfully, tilting her head to side as she looked at the buttons on his shirt, "it's more than half your fault. You know more about this kind of stuff than I do. You have years of experience over me."

A grimace played across his mouth. "Experience. Is that a reference to my age or my sluttiness?"

She refused to take the bait. "Both." When she felt him tense beneath her, she rushed on, "Don't feel badly. We all do slutty things sometimes. What do you call coming into your hotel room and taking off all my clothes?"

Instead of trying to pry her off of him, he smoothed her hair back. "That wasn't slutty," he said. "That was brave."

She took the tenderness as a good sign and pressed forward. Leaning in closer, she whispered against his mouth. "You could have just come out and said: 'Lexie, wanna go steady?'."

His jaw tightened underneath her fingertips. "Lexie," he warned. "Don't try to be cute; I'm still damn angry with you."

She sighed, resting her forehead against his collar. "I know." Lifting her head, she bit her lip. "But I _am_ trying to make it up to you. To thank you for—"

He exhaled long and deep and she felt his chest shift under her. "I don't want your gratitude, Lexie," he said quietly. Then he stood up, obviously expecting her to fall off as he did so, but she held on tighter, wrapping all four of her lean limbs around him like a koala. Legs cinched at his waist, she buried her face into his neck and shook her head, denying his next words before they were even born.

"You don't have to feel sorry for me and you don't have to try to make it up to me." His voice rumbled through his throat and she felt every word vibrate against her cheek. He sighed and put his hands on her hips to haul her away. "Even I get it now." His voice grew self-deprecating. "Derek was more than happy to rub it in."

Face still pressed against his skin, she asked, "What do you mean?"

He laughed, the sound hollow. "Meaning he enjoyed the irony: I was crazy about you and you didn't see me."

She pulled away far enough to look at him, apathetic to the moisture he'd see in her eyes. "Didn't see you? How could I not see you? You're hard to—" Her eyes scanned over his features and upper chest before swallowing hard. "—miss."

She gripped him tighter with one arm while releasing the other to swipe at her eyes. "And why would I feel sorry for _you_? The only person I feel sorry for here is me." Brown eyes turned accusing as she thumped her fist against him. "First you make me want you, then you make me beg."

"Beg?" Interest perked up his voice. The grooves around his mouth flashed. "I see no begging."

She glared at him, aware of his hands cupping her upper thighs as he sat them on the edge of the bed. "Not funny."

"And what about the safe guy? The friend?" His hands ran up and down her thighs, from knee to hip. The heat created by the soothing gesture was welcome. Her old friend, hope, rose at his touch, clenching her chest.

She sniffed. "_You're_ my friend," she said. "You—you're a lot of things." Pressing her thumbs against the corners of his mouth, her hands curled around his neck and she forced him to look at her. "I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner. I just—every time you were there, I just thought you were—it didn't occur to me that you might—"

"Why?" he interrupted. When she looked confused, he said, "Why wouldn't it occur to you that I could feel that way about you?"

"Because you and I had already…"

"Slept together," he finished. "So naturally I'd lose interest."

Afraid he'd get angry again, her legs unconsciously tightened around his waist, her ankles rubbing against the comforter of the bed. "It's just that you have a bit of a reputation," she said helplessly.

He sighed, his expression bleak. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do." He tried to turn his head to look at some spot on the wall behind her, but she kept her fingers firm on his face. When she met his eyes, she recognized the vulnerability that was staring back at her. This man—this hard, caustic man with the ego and arrogance of a double board certified surgeon was just as emotionally bruised as the rest of them. Just as fearful of rejection.

"But it doesn't matter," she rushed on to say. "It doesn't," she insisted, when it looked as if he didn't believe her. "Now that I know."

"And what do you now know?"

Insecurity was a hard chip to shake off and she hesitated as she spoke. "That you like me. As in _like me_ like me."

"Is that really so hard to believe?"

And then she let her hands fall from his face, ducking her head to hug him. He let her for a moment, stroking her hair. "You try so hard to get people to notice you, Lexie. You try to learn it all, share it all, give it all—so that people will think you matter." Then he refused to let her hide against his chest any longer. Grasping her shoulders, he pulled her away so he could look at her. "But you _do_ matter, Lexie," he said, his voice suddenly gruff. "You matter a hell of a lot."

She turned her head to kiss the palm cupping the side of her face. Then she took his wrist and replaced it around her waist. Her fingertips traced his eyebrows and the slope of his nose before saying, "You're beautiful."

"I think you mean handsome." The smirk and conceit was pure Sloan, but she didn't smile and shook her head.

"No. I'm mean, yes, you have a handsome face, and I'm sure people have told you as much, but right now, here, I think _you_ are beautiful."

His throat convulsed and he held her to him as he stood up briefly to flip their bodies. She landed on her back, her limbs still wound around him.

He grinned over her, the grooves deepening. "Are you ever going to let go?"

Her head shook solemnly. "Is that all right?"

The answer was in his kiss. When they finally broke apart, she propped herself on her elbows and moved backward to the pillows. He followed her slowly on all fours, his body over hers, their faces brushing the entire journey.

As he worked the button fly of her jeans and grumbled about whatever happened to zippers, her head turned to the nightstand. Angling her head until she got a better look, she then tried to sit up. "Is that my underwear?"

He gave a negligent look to the nightstand and then finished tugging her jeans off. "Yes."

She lifted her hips to assist him. "That's sweet…in a perverted old man way."

He straightened his spine and looked down at her supine form, her hair molten in the dim light. He opened his mouth and she was certain he was going to get sardonic about the 'old' crack. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, "Yeah, I'm working on a collection. Now give me yours." They were off in record time and joined the pair already on the nightstand.

It was much later when, as his frame moved over hers and she clasped him to her, that he said, fingers lost in the cool satin of her hair, "I adore you, you know that?"

She shook her head mutely, throat clogged with emotion. Sliding her hands across his shoulders, her fingers dug into his skin. By the time she found her breath to tell him what needed to be said and shared, he stole her words as he bent his head to kiss her.

When dawn came, it streamed light on tangled limbs. Some time later, the limbs stirred, shifting to find each other in a new expression of what could be love, what could be love.


End file.
